


Love is to Share Mine is for You

by mytimehaspassed



Series: Love is to Share Verse [1]
Category: Trinity (TV 2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, M/M, Murder, Spoilers, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-19
Updated: 2011-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:25:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lancelot first meets Galahad, there’s something intrinsically familiar about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is to Share Mine is for You

**LOVE IS TO SHARE MINE IS FOR YOU**  
TRINITY  
Lancelot!Jonty/Galahad!Ross  
 **WARNINGS** : AU; spoilers for the series  
This is what happens when [](http://dorian-mauve.livejournal.com/profile)[**dorian_mauve**](http://dorian-mauve.livejournal.com/) writes Lancelot!Jonty and tells me that it's okay for me to write some fucked up AU about what would've happened had they have not killed Ross, but still turned Jonty into some medieval robot.

  
When Lancelot first meets Galahad, there’s something intrinsically familiar about him. There’s something there, flittering just beneath his skin in this new body of his, something that jumps up and doesn’t want to be waylaid, something that won’t be pushed back down, no matter how hard he tries. He shakes his hand and its brief and cold, fingers sliding into palms and then out again, Galahad’s mouth twitching with something like the same recognition Lancelot feels. He can see it there, too, threatening to break past Galahad’s equable exterior.

Cooper doesn’t notice the exchange, or if he does, he keeps it to himself, as he guides Lancelot back over to the medical bed with one steady hand on the small of his back. He starts connecting the machines again, sliding monitors onto Lancelot’s bare chest, pushing buttons that make noise, as Galahad watches from the alcove, his eyes like heat searing through the glass.

“Who is that boy?” Lancelot asks, and Cooper looks at him like he’s a child who has spoken out of turn.

“He’s like you,” Cooper pauses, turning away from Lancelot to push some more buttons, biting his lip. “He was like you.” He sniffs at something that could be a catch in his throat. “You’re better, you see.”

And Lancelot doesn’t, but he nods, anyway, lying back against the bed with a certain flourish, his eyes meeting Galahad’s.

Galahad smiles, and Lancelot smiles back.

***

A long time ago, there was a boy called Jonty.

Lancelot is sure of this, even if Cooper has never heard the name.

***

When Cooper tells Lancelot that it’s time to move out from the medical bed, that all his tests have come back with more than positive results and that he’s free to move about the facility and pick a cold, bare room that suits him, Lancelot finds himself drawn to Galahad’s. The bed is warm and soft and there are pictures of boys in rowboats on the nightstand and there are two oars hanging over the fireplace like trophies and Galahad smiles broad when Lancelot enters the room.

“I have an affinity for rowing,” Galahad says, even though Lancelot never asks. “Dr. Cooper says I was the best before they had to fix me.”

Lancelot frowns at this, moving to place two fingers on the picture of Galahad with another boy, a boy whose face has been cut out. “Fix you?”

“I was bad,” Galahad said. “I did a bad thing. Dr. Cooper said I needed to be fixed, so they put me here.”

Lancelot turns around again, and even though Galahad is smiling while he says this, Lancelot can feel the unease like smoke filling up the room. He moves to sit on the bed beside Galahad, their hands almost touching. “What bad thing?” Lancelot says, his voice soft, curious.

Galahad’s smile drops a little and he turns to look at his fingers, watching them slowly inch across the space between them, slowly curl around Lancelot’s hand, his palm warm. “Dr. Cooper says I tried kill someone.” His breath hitches, his eyes shine in the overhead lights. “He says I tried to run away, but I’m not sure why I would do that. This is my home, this has always been my home, ever since,” and here he trails off, his hand gripping Lancelot’s tight.

“Since what?” Lancelot asks, and he can see the emotion clear across Galahad’s face, can see the way he swallows and brushes a hand over his eyes like he’s pushing back tears, and Lancelot doesn’t know why this would be worse, doesn’t know why Lancelot himself would be better than this, because there’s nothing more that Lancelot wants to do right now than feel what Galahad is feeling.

“There was a boy once,” Galahad says, his eyes flickering over to the broken picture, and his hands are so tight that Lancelot can feel his bones start to click together. “Dr. Cooper says it doesn’t matter now, though. He’s dead.”

“What was he like, your boy?” Lancelot follows the line of Galahad’s jaw with his eyes as Galahad swallows once, twice.

“He was beautiful,” Galahad says, and his smile is as warm as his hand on Lancelot’s.

***

Cooper tells Lancelot that Galahad isn’t much use for them now except to study and test and monitor all the things that went wrong, Galahad’s useless emotions and the way he looks at Lancelot with hungry, sad eyes. Lancelot watches Galahad watch him when they bring him back to the medical bed for one more checkup, Cooper sliding cool fingers across Lancelot’s pulse, counting the beats with whispers.

Sometimes they take Galahad away and he comes back half broken, bruised and sore and black-eyed, and Lancelot will place measured palms on Galahad’s wounds and feel the heat from them soak into his body, and Galahad will cry softly, his head turned away with shame, and Lancelot will kiss him once, twice, on the space where his neck meets his jaw until he stops.

Galahad will arch under Lancelot’s touch and his breath will be labored and he will think about that boy he used to love, before all of this, before everything, and Lancelot only knows this because Galahad will get that far away look in his eyes like maybe he could remember if he just tried hard enough, like maybe a name will come to him one of these days, and Lancelot will touch him until he forgets again.

Cooper knows, in that way that he knows everything, and he frowns when Lancelot unbuttons his shirt and there are dark red marks on his collarbone, the same shape as Galahad’s thumbs, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t mention the way Lancelot will shift because he’s sore or wince when Cooper presses down upon a particular ache. Cooper says, “You’ll have to meet with Edmund for the psychological exam,” and Lancelot can’t help the curl of distaste from overcoming his mouth and Cooper freezes and then writes something down in a little red notebook.

Lancelot sighs and Cooper writes that down, too. If Galahad’s emotions are infectious, then he doesn’t want to ever be clean again.

***

When Galahad asks what happened to all the other boys that used to live here, the ones that used to fill the cold, empty rooms, Cooper looks frightened and maybe a little sad and starts to say that there never used to be any other boys, that there was only just Galahad and Lancelot (and a boy called Jonty, Lancelot knows this like he knows anything else), but stops in the middle of his lie because Galahad looks like he might throw a fit.

“They’re,” Cooper starts, and swallows and turns away, his face pinched. “They’re gone now. They’re all dead.”

“They couldn’t be fixed?” Lancelot asks, not looking at Galahad, not wanting to see what being fixed entails, and Cooper shakes his head sadly.

“No.” He says. “They weren’t strong enough, they weren’t like you two.”

“Can we see them?” Galahad says, and Cooper bites his lip hard enough to bleed.

“There isn’t anything left,” he says, and Lancelot has visions of warrior pyres and wonders why.

Galahad frowns and Lancelot slides his fingers into Galahad’s, their hands hot and soft together, trying for comfort or empathy or something that he’s not supposed to feel but does anyway when he’s around Galahad. They melt together and Cooper sees but doesn’t want to, writing something in pen in his notebook, something that curves in big letters, something that’s bad.

***

Maltravers looks at Lancelot like he’s a prize at the end of one of Galahad’s rowing competitions, like Lancelot is the answer to all his questions. He smiles and smiles and offers Lancelot tea, which he declines, and biscuits, which he eats slowly, mechanically, tasting nothing. He talks about a lot of grand, brilliant ideas about the world and when Lancelot offers no opinions he smiles proudly with all of his teeth.

Lancelot knows he is supposed to be detached and calm and present no insight into foreign affairs or current events, which he doesn’t, but when Maltravers mentions Galahad, Lancelot stiffens in his seat, an uneasy wave of something folding over him. Maltravers drops his smile and Lancelot tries to put his mask back on, but it’s harder than he thought it would be, and he settles for looking away demurely.

“Galahad has been an unexpected setback in this project,” Maltravers says, watching Lancelot with cold eyes. “I suggested to Linus that we separate you two, but he said it would be unhealthy. I can see now that he was wrong.”

Lancelot swallows something that catches in his throat, his eyes stinging. “I don’t understand what you mean, sir,” he says, and doesn’t look as Maltravers comes around his desk, his shoes tapping out a faint pattern in the floor. Maltravers comes to stand in front of Lancelot, and he grips Lancelot’s jaw with a wrinkled hand and forces him to look into his eyes.

“You care for this boy,” he says, and Lancelot tells himself that the flash of ache in his belly is nothing to be afraid of, that it could never hurt him. “That is unacceptable.”

“I agree, sir.” Lancelot’s mouth forms the words, but the ache inside of him grows and grows.

“What shall we do about it, then?” Maltravers’ hand leaves Lancelot’s face with a quick sweep of cold fingers.

“I’m not sure, sir.” Lancelot looks up at him with worried eyes.

“Very well, then,” Maltravers has already turned back to his desk, sorting through the papers on top, clearly finished with the conversation. “Send Cooper here when you see him. I wish to have a chat.”

Lancelot leaves the office, his palm flat against his stomach, his eyes shut against the pain.

***

Cooper spends all day in the alcove behind the glass partition, crying in defiance.

Galahad holds Lancelot’s hand and asks him why, but they both know that something is about to happen, and Lancelot remembers the look on Maltravers face and presses his mouth into the joint of Galahad’s neck to stave the wave of emotion rolling through him, the wave of something that used to be tightly wound inside his stomach, but has been let loose ever since Maltravers mentioned Galahad’s name. Galahad kisses him until Lancelot’s mouth bruises and they fuck on the medical bed, wary of Cooper’s prying eyes, but not caring, Galahad’s tight, beautiful little gasps and Lancelot’s mouth biting every inch of exposed skin he can find, and they leave blood stained fingerprints on all the equipment and sweat all over the bed, and when they’re finished, Lancelot looks up and doesn’t see Cooper in the alcove, but Maltravers, watching them with more hunger than disappointment.

Galahad hides his face somewhere near Lancelot’s shoulder, and Lancelot stares up at Maltravers and wishes he would come down and try to stop them, try to pull them apart, because Lancelot isn’t sure what Galahad would do, but Lancelot was trained to kill. Maltravers smirks like he can hear Lancelot’s thoughts and leaves, and Lancelot curls his fingers around Galahad and promises himself that he will never let anything happen.

Galahad presses a soft kiss to the corner of Lancelot’s mouth and doesn’t say a word.

***

Galahad takes him down to the campus morgue and shows him the bodies, hidden away in locked drawers. Galahad tells him that he lifted the key from Cooper, who fell asleep in the alcove again; his head back against the chair, his mouth open wide. Lancelot looks at them and feels that same familiar twinge that he felt when he met Galahad for the first time, like he knew them, like he had seen them before. Galahad looks devastated, and reaches out to touch one of the lifeless corpses, but Lancelot grabs his hand before he gets there.

“This is what would have happened to me,” Galahad says, and Lancelot feels that same ache, in his chest this time, spreading farther across his body. “This is what they would have done if they didn’t want to fix me.” Galahad’s voice is quiet in the dark, and Lancelot moves closer to his warmth. “They would have killed me and sent me here.”

“And burned you,” Lancelot whispers, and there’s an image in his mind of Galahad burning on a boat sent out to sea, and he can’t help the sob that escapes his throat, and Galahad looks at him as if he’d done something terrible, and he wraps his arms around Lancelot and doesn’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

And Lancelot’s not quite sure what for, but when he lifts his hands to his face he feels something wet there, something slick on his fingers. He tastes salt in his mouth and he wonders if this is what it feels like to love.

“I’m sorry,” Galahad whispers into his ear, and Lancelot is afraid to speak.

***

(Jonty, something calls to him in his dreams. Jonty, Jonty, Jonty.

The voice sounds like Galahad’s, but when Lancelot turns to look, the boy who stands before him is less bruised and smiles like he means it, and Lancelot goes to breathe out his name, but something else comes out instead.

“Ross,” he says, and Galahad kisses him until he wakes up.)

Interlude: [There is An Empty Space Inside My Heart Where the Weeds Take Root](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/22041.html)  
Next: [Your Heart Will Break Whatever You Do](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/21525.html)


End file.
